Philosophies of boys with nothing to lose

[IsiNYC]

"You know my motto, I just don't trust 'em"

Things have a way of repeating themselves as if everything moved in circles. 'What comes around goes around' - an understated cliche often used without clear comprehension. No, I do not mean to say, that your average person doesn't understand that the implication of the phrase is 'what you do today, affects what happens tomorrow', rather that this definition is too simplistic in form to truly effect ones willingness to behave a certain way as to control a future.

Andi has said "I don't trust them" repeatedly. If I view each event that has sparked that statement as a circle there must be a predecessor and an aftershock, both in forms of circles that revolve as a result of the other.

For a split second my mind raced and tried to frame my current situation into our agreed shape which has been set into motion from another which had spun in the past - days maybe years ago. What propelled my present into motion? The difficulty of my search didn't depend on my ability to recall related events...I figure, they don't need to be similar in nature. It is its essence that matters - the energy created from it, positive or negative. Is this moment an injustice commited upon me only to be corrected in the future or is balance shining on me, on its proudest moment - equilibrium?

I cleared my mind and lacking the energy and the desire to explain everything I was thinking at the moment I nodded and said, "I hear ya...", smiling at the umpteenth time I'd heard him say that he didn't trust women.

[DeLiRiUm TrEmEnS]

It was the fragrance of the grayish pines, encircled from the smoke of the Deus Ex cigarettes that I was smoking, what reminded me of her. I haven't seen her for a deserted time, and ... still, she doesn't wait too long, but appears in front of the unclosed sight of my imagination, whenever she feels like. She emerges akin to a small dot, a tiny-winy one, and ... broadens up into a milky way-kind of imaginative galaxy, right in front of my miserable eyes. My eyes really get wretched in these occasions. And ..., her smile decorated by false emotions, bordering on to an out of age army coat filled with dusty medals - such a vomiting sensation. The falsehood of the technique how she opens her mouth, how she shifts her slim rusty lips - always at such moments, I feel lucky I can't hear her nonsense lexis. But..., trust me, this kind of silence kills me more than the loud pronunciation of her words. It's their connotation that creates unfiltered extracts from the secret caves inside my shattered cerebellum, as if it was an immense amount of smashed potatoes.

All the contemporary novelists appear so out of world right now. Kundera?! Who is he?! ... A bridge-man between “The Farwell Party” and “Immortality”, a hybridized ex-Bohemian, a man made of two halves – jack of clubs – one Czech and the other French. Wasn’t Nietzsche right when he stated “An artist has no home in Europe except in Paris.”?! And ..., what does he do?! Simply, the opposite of what I’m doing; he bombards you with rhetoric questions amidst scenes of dark sex.

I bet she was saying, she was dating a physician. I didn’t really get his specialization, but it seemed as she was talking about a gynecologist or urologist. I guess she wanted to emphasize the fact that his profession dealt with what she used to consider the most sacred organs of the human body. Her eyes filled with a bunch of challenging glances, when she mentioned in a foxy way, she was having sex every day. The exchange of inner liquids was magnificent and safe. She was consuming some kind of violet birth control pills, regularly, every morning exactly at 10 am. My ears were rattling from the ex-screams of her past ecstasies.

Wasn’t I who never used to trust women?! Yeah, it was I.

... I stood up, walked toward her slowly, with my right hand sunk in an inquiring manner deep inside my pocket. When the flesh of my face could feel her poppy breath, I elongated my right hand toward her breasts, placing a bunch of 5000 dinar bills, at the place where the upper silky edges of her pink brassiere used to hang.

From sometime now, pink is considered an out-of-fashion color. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t carry any more brassieres around her breasts; her instant lust keeps them pear-like, ... tighter, ... straighter.

[Fiona]

Une them shkruje te gjith ne shqip. lol. Do te me pelqente me shume, sidomos me ato emrat qe ke zgjedhur: Andi, Isak, Ela...sikur shkon me shume ne shqip. ;)

[IsiNYC]

....ahhh Fiona, sa do me pelqente te kisha te njejtin fjalor ne Shqip sic e kam ne Anglisht. Nuk eshte aq shume mungesa e fjaleve se sa pa aftesija te krijoj idera abstrakte me fjal te cilat jam i programuar ti perdor ne situata konkrete.

[IsiNYC]

....ajo nuk e kupton, qe kurr, nuk do e leshoj veten dhe nuk do shkruaj as edhe nje gje per ate!

[IsiNYC]

...and so it came, Pink Floyd found its way into his life. Everything he had found repugnant at one point was turning into the soundtrack of a time. 'High Hopes.' Yes, high hopes he thought, obviously jaded that change in all its fortitude had flexed once again displaying its might before his very eyes despite all his struggles to overpower it. Another, turn of the page, another person lost, another portion of his soul lost to what will be a stranger in his future.

There is a quality to Floyd that brings to the surface every moment spent in slavery like a whirlwind of pleasure through dispair. Yes, Floyd is a masochistic experience draped in ambiguous beauty - a celebration of captivity! They are inviting friends when freedom lands on the hands of the unexpecting victim. Surprised? Yes, many of us are victims of freedom. Unassuming passangers struck with the frightening realization that the narrow road we've been taken on has an end, an alternate route, it is a thin line on a vast map or even that our map isn't even an accurate account of the territory! Picture Eastern Europe immediately after the fall of the iron curtain. Their celebration, a parody of an era the western world had left behind decades ago! Likewise, he welcomed his freedom trying to revive events from the past! Trying to ride on the same road, looking at the same map that all led to the same end, a stranger in his future.

Isak paused and thought about the words recurring in his head. A stranger in his future. He remembered the lines from a poem he had written years ago;

" A stranger in my future,
I picture,
you will have remained beautiful deep into time"

A recurring theme he thought. He hung on to that feeling and all the pain it created and tried to welcome it in. Yes, this is what his freedom brought, a celebration through old events. Old poems, old memories and an old blueprint of how to move forward once again.

"A stranger in my future" Tanja, "I picture you will have remained beautiful deep into time" and "How sad that you were never able to understand me." You so desperately wanted what I had and lost that you turned into what I had ...and lost."

[IsiNYC]

Afterthought.

He sat searching the room, dark and desolate, covered in thick dust. His clothes were scattered all over the ground and the couch was covered by a thick old towel which despite being uncomfortable prevented the leather from sticking to him in the summer heat. Josiah Leming's words traveled the room creating images in his head of places he knew did not exist. He glanced at the 4 corners of the room and felt like a king of a pillaged and abandoned country. Unnecessary and unwanted in other words. He lit another cigarette and as he stood there naked, glanced at his body searching for imperfections through the haze of the smoke traveling before him. A naked king of an abandoned country looking through the rubble after the pillage.

[Butësi]

hi
une nuk kam mundesi (ne kohe) te lexoj cfare eshte shkruar ketu por me ne fund lexoj nje shqiptar qe njeh Kunderen

[IsiNYC]

I kam lexuar te gjithe librat e Kunderes! Ka dhe te tjere ne forum qe kan komentuar per librat por nuk e besoj se postojn me. Forumi nuk eshte me ashtu sic ishte nje here e nje kohe!

[IsiNYC]

He vomited. Picked his head up once again and saw himself in the mirror, flush red and damp eyes from all the heaving. What started out feeling like a forceful blow to his chest had traveled to his head from lowering it closer to the toilet and violently releasing everything inside of him. He saw the image again, 'a vampire leaning in on a bare neck' and felt everything around him blur and the pain in his chest and the spinning room and his head halfway in the toitlet once again.

Everytime he saw himself in the mirror he looked worse. The blood vessels around his eyes had burst from all the forceful contractions that were part of the process. He looked like he had died and risen again. The dark circles around his eyes showed little thin blots at a closer distance. He leaned against the wall and slid down letting his ass hit the floor. He was tired.

He had played the image in his head many times changing details to the point where he did not know what was made up and what was forgotten. So after the shock had subsided he wrote:

"....and as I was about to sit a familiar back caught my eye. Delicate shoulters leaned right. He sat leaning back, like a king on his throne unaware that his life flashed before him. And I saw her, my dearest vampire, preying on his neck and finally rushing in. And as I waited for his blood to spill it felt like something cut me inside. A red stain began to form on my chest and I couldn't speak. And as everyone rushed in my direction, I pointed your way but you did not notice me. Hands were being placed on me to stop the bleeding and they were tugging at my stained white shirt and I pointed again but no one was listening. We're going to keep you alive they said, just be patient and don't speak. I tried to scream, and I think I may have but the hole on my chest just released it as air never allowing it to become a sound. They sat me down and looked around for my killer and rumors began to spread. 'He had a gun' no 'He had a knife, there was no sound how could it have been a knife' and as they searched, I searched and saw not a trickle of blood on his neck. I mustered up the strength and screamed 'But she bit his neck, why am I bleeding? Why am I bleeding?' and once again it all translated into a wheezing sound and blood spewed out of my mouth. And so I stopped looking. My voice was no longer my messenger and my chest was wide open for my heart to stop working. What was the point to keep trying? As strangers placed their hands on my chest and washed me down with cold water, the men offered me vodka for comfort until a stranger leaned in and said 'Not all vampiers bite you fool' and with that I died. You killed me."

He read over what he had written and feared that he would be deemed a sensationalist. But he was no sensationalist he merely wanted to remember it as it felt.